by Lucy Tempest
“A witch!” Cherine burst out of her seat and staggered back to press herself against the wall.
Fairuza jerked in her seat, seemingly itching to do the same, but she stayed put, her hands fisted so tightly I could see blue veins popping up against her creamy skin. “And you brought it in here? With us?”
“I’ve been called a lot of things, but ‘it’ has to be the funniest among them,” said the witch gleefully. “But you’re on my turf, girl, and you’ll refer to me as Lady Marzeya.”
Chapter Eighteen
“On what grounds are you a lady?” Fairuza hissed, posture tight with simmering hostility, looking like she wanted to launch herself at Marzeya and strangle her.
So, she not only had a problem with fairies, but witches as well?
“On the grounds that all witches in the kingdom defer to me, and that I am responsible for half the magic that guards and runs this land.” Marzeya bared teeth I could easily picture ripping off chunks of flesh in a bone-chilling grin. “Is that enough to earn me the title of Lady, or do I need to end a few wars and raise the dead first?”
Fairuza sneered at her. “I’d rather you and all who serve you vanish off the Folkshore, or go back to the hell you all came from.”
“Aw, dearie, I would, but I’m afraid the hell-pit that spat us out doesn’t want us back.” The calculating amusement of Marzeya’s response made Fairuza’s jabs sound like a dumb puppy, overestimating its size and trying to intimidate a hawk with its yipping barks.
This wasn’t an old wise-woman. This was an ancient entity that channeled the most powerful magic, and there was nothing that scared her, not even the dark depths of Duzakh.
Fairuza opened her mouth to respond, but Loujaïne ordered, “Stop it!”
Marzeya turned her attention to Loujaïne, walking towards her and reaching her clawed hands to the princess’s face. Loujaïne froze up, breathing in harshly but remaining perfectly still as Marzeya stroked her cheek with the back of her hand then clutched her jaw. “You both favor Queen Morgana greatly. Unfortunately, it’s just in looks.”
If Loujaïne didn’t clearly fear offending this woman, she would have no doubt ordered her hands to be cut off. “You knew my mother?”
“And your grandmother, and your great-grandmother, and so on.” Marzeya released Loujaïne, turning her attention to us.
There was something unsettling about her gaze, and it wasn’t just that it came from red eyes, but the viewpoint behind them as well. I had been looked down upon by better-off people my entire life, people who saw me as beneath them, not just in class or rank but in species. To them I’d been on par with chickens.
But regardless of status, we were beneath her. I could feel that ugly truth in my soul. In age, experience, wisdom, knowledge, and above all else, power.
To Marzeya we weren’t animals, we were bugs.
I hoped none of them prompted her to squash us.
She approached the table and all of us, including Cyrus and Cora, shifted in unease or fear. Cherine was still flat against the fall, Fairuza looked like she was on the verge of enraged, terrified tears and Ariane’s sea-green eyes were glued to the painted ceiling, lips twitching as she soundlessly murmured a prayer.
Marzeya circled us, stopping to examine each face, dragging her nails along the backs of our reddish wooden chairs in a long, uninterrupted scrape that sent my blood rushing in my veins, turning the room’s pleasant atmosphere into an oven.
She didn’t say a word to Farouk, merely checked Loujaïne over her shoulder and hummed at him interestedly before moving on to Ariane, who was determined not to meet her eyes.
She leaned in closer, causing Ariane to pant in distress and bring her eyes down to her lap, before she said, “Word of advice—if your father becomes madder than usual, feed him to your brother.”
Ariane smothered a gasp, but couldn’t help looking at Marzieh, who pinched her cheek before moving on to Cyrus.
Cyrus stood and bowed his head. “Your Grace.”
“Aren’t you a polite boy,” she cooed, grabbing his face with both her hands. His arms jerked and Ayman emerged from the shadows, unsheathing his sword but Cyrus stopped him with a staying hand. Marzeya frowned curiously at Ayman, creating more facial wrinkles, then snapped her head towards Loujaïne. “Whatever happened to your husband again, dear?”
Loujaïne was sweating, her jaw clenched and her penciled brows tense. “He is where I left him.”
I hadn’t even realized that Loujaïne had a husband. So that was what prevented her from marrying Farouk.
“Ah, yes, he put you aside for that witch,” she said distractedly, still holding Cyrus.’s face “I haven’t heard from her in a while. Did you have her killed?”
“No,” Loujaïne ground out. “She left when he sent for her.”
“What was her name again? Hessa? No, that was the one your nut of a father killed, and I know Lamia Rostam’s daughter was the last of Jumana’s ladies here.” Marzeya counted, a dreamy mood overtaking her. “I know she had a pearl name, too, like Hessa and Jumana did.”
Looking straight at me, Loujaïne bit out, “Dorreya.”
I bit my tongue, hard, to anchor myself, to keep my face blank.
I had stupidly told Loujaïne my mother’s name my first night in the palace, when I’d thought it would be a quick job to find the lamp and leave. When I was sure I had no ties to this land, or to these people. Even when the evidence to the contrary had piled as high as Sunstone’s mountain, I’d clung to the possibility that Dorreya was a common name here, that it couldn’t be her.
But there was no escaping the conclusions now.
My mother had been from here, and she’d once been Nariman’s companion, maybe friend, had been Princess Jumana’s—Cyrus’s mother’s—third lady-in-waiting.
And that wasn’t even the end of it.
She’d been the mistress of Loujaïne’s husband, too, it seemed.
If my mother had been a witch, then that could explain how she’d ended up on Ericura. The same way Nariman had. But why? Why would she go there of all places and for what reason? Had she been escaping something, or someone? Had it been Loujaïne’s attempts to kill her, like her father had killed Hessa?
An overwhelming combination of bewilderment and fury bubbled in my gut with enough intensity to rival this witch’s cauldron.
How could my mother not tell me this? Any of this? Why leave me in the dark my entire life?
But she’d tried to tell me something in that nightmare. It had felt too real to dismiss as a mere dream. What if she’d sent me a message from beyond the grave? If she’d had magic in life then her soul ought to retain it in death.
If only I knew the last word she’d said! If I did, I might figure out what she’d meant.
“Dorreya, that was it! Hessa, Jumana and Dorreya, Almaskhamis and their pearls!” Marzeya laughed, patting Cyrus’s face. “That verdant color—same as your mother’s eyes, did you know?”
Cyrus attempted to smile at her. “I know.”
“You better not share her fate. I’d hate for Hessa to have died for nothing.”
Cyrus’s grimace told me that he knew Nariman’s story, about his grandfather executing one of Jumana’s magical ladies-in-waiting for supposedly meddling with her fertility. It hadn’t helped much. Jumana had still taken her own life not long after giving Xerxes his longed-for grandson.
Tears stung my eyes but I didn’t dare let them fall. Hessa, Jumana and my mother were all gone, and all would have been alive and happy had they never left Almaskham for Cahraman. And the Fairborns and I would have been together in blissful ignorance had Nariman not been the sole survivor of that group.
I didn’t know if I could attribute that to luck or her own cunning. Or her magic. The magic my mother supposedly had, and had never used to ease our lives. What she’d withheld from me along with my own family and history.
Family. I had moved to Aubenaire in search of my mother’s relatives. But she’d lied
about being from there. If she’d been from Almaskham then I was from there.
I could have family there.
I might have grandparents, possibly aunts, uncles, and cousins! Depending on when my mother had become pregnant with me, and when she’d opened a portal to Ericura, my father could either have been from Almaskham as well or from the North where she’d first settled in.
This was too much information for me to stomach. And none of it helped me in anyway. I had to focus on finding out what would.
After wishing him luck on finding his princess, Marzeya released Cyrus, passing Cherine’s empty seat to press her nose against mine. I went from being anxious to becoming anxiety itself as her bloody eyes stared into mine, and visions of her teeth biting off my face flipped through my head like the pages of a windblown book.
“Oh, you, you are interesting.” Marzeya pulled back a bit, letting me breathe. “You look like your grandmother, your father’s mother.”
Leaving me in shock, she moved on to Cora, who snapped her teeth shut near the hand reaching for her.
“Beastly, this one is.” Marzeya laughed, her rough, ruined husk of a voice like the caws of a raven. The warning bite didn’t deter her from ruffling Cora’s hair fondly. “No mere man will be able to handle you.”
She ended her nerve-wracking trip around the table by Fairuza, who looked ready to hit her and damn the consequences. Marzeya walked her fingers along the back of Fairuza’s chair, leaning in towards her, farther away than she had with the rest of us. “You don’t have a lot of time left, that’s what you get for leaving things to sort themselves out.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, witch.”
“Then you ought to have a chat with your brother about how bad manners make beasts of us all.” She returned to the front of the room, busying herself with a two-tiered trolley stacked with crystal bottles filled with colorful liquids. Choosing a blue one, she opened it, and the scent of water lilies wafted to my overworked nose. “Although the fault with you both lies with your mother.”
Fairuza moved to stand, but Loujaïne forced her back down.
“Now, why don’t we get started with why you’re here,” Marzeya said into her glass as she downed the blue liquor.
Fairuza spoke first, voice pinched with impatience. “Over two-hundred years ago, our family lost an heirloom to you.”
Marzeya swirled the remaining contents of the glass, more intrigued by it than Fairuza. “The small cost of Artaxes thinking it was a good idea to declare war on Zhadugar.”
Fairuza goggled at her. “That was because you invaded our land!”
“Funny how stories wildly differ, even invert, depending on bias,” Marzeya tutted, checking Cyrus out the corner of her eye then Ayman, who remained still with his hand on his sword. “But it’s not a faded tale passed down through history. I was there.”
“No, you weren’t,” Fairuza insisted.
“Dearie, I was there when the Avestan Empire rose and I was there when it fell.” Marzeya seemed to be losing her patience, a sharp edge to her otherwise easy-going tone. “Your ancestor declared war on us, because he wanted to expel us from our land and take it for himself. The idiot thought he could take our sacred wells as his new water source, grow his figs and prickly pears with Anaïta’s lifeblood.”
Fairuza had no more retorts, settled for channeling her vitriol through her turquoise eyes.
Cyrus stood again. “My lady, I can best explain the reason for our visit today.”
“Go on.” Marzeya patted him on the back on her way to take Cherine’s vacated seat between Cora and myself.
When she tucked her chair closer to the table, I couldn’t help the way my joints locked, slamming my knees together and my arms to my side. It wasn’t that she radiated hostility, it was the power that thrummed through her, so strong I could almost see it, like the reddest, hottest core of an iron furnace. Nariman, as much as she intimidated me, didn’t feel anything like this.
Cyrus moved so he could face us all. “We are here to negotiate the return of my ancestor’s necklace, but neither myself nor Princess Loujaïne will do the talking. Instead it will be these five ladies speaking on our behalf with you.”
“Hmm, and the one who does the best job will be your queen?” Marzeya hummed contemplatively.
Cyrus inclined his head respectfully. “Hopefully.”
Marzeya’s dark lips spread in a crocodile grin as she clapped. “Let’s begin then.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Well?” Marzeya sat forwards, looking around at us all. “Convince me why I should give it back to you.”
No one moved.
I didn’t want to go first. I wanted to wait until at least two went forward so I could read the situation, and gauge Marzeya’s methods and limits before testing them in an argument. Patient as she had been with Fairuza’s aggression, there was no telling what could provoke her into turning me into a frog.
Marzeya snapped her fingers, releasing a whip-like crack that made us all jump or jerk. She pointed at Cherine. “You, little mouse, come sit down. Present your argument.”
Cherine swallowed, visibly shaking as she circled the table and took Cyrus’s vacated seat. She was too far for me to comfort or whisper that she’d be all right.
Cherine opened her mouth but only a croak came out. “Uh…”
Speechless. The presence of a witch was what it took to finally render Cherine Nazaryan speechless.
“How compelling,” Marzeya snorted, pointing to Ariane next. “How about you?”
Ariane looked as apprehensive as I felt. Her typically serene, closed-mouth smile fought to remain on her face as her eyes looked everywhere except directly at the witch, as if she feared the red eyes would burn out her own.
“My lady, as Prince Cyaxares said, we are here to negotiate the return of Queen Zafira’s necklace, an important heirloom of the House of Shamash.” Despite her put-on cheerful demeanor Ariane’s voice trembled, gaze more towards my face than the witch’s.
I gave her an awkward smile, the most I could do to encourage her.
“Nice of you to parrot his words for me, but I’m old not dead.” Marzeya sighed, her earlier amusement falling to displeasure, like she had been expecting a troop of exotic birds and found only a clutch of hens. “Start negotiating.”
Letting out a shaky breath, Ariane fastened her smile on. “It’s known the heirloom in mention was handed over in a pact of peace after the witches’ war with King Abraxas—Artaxes!” Sweat now coated her fair skin, her peachy glow turning bright pink. “But since it was so long ago that this happened—not that I’m invalidating your memory of the war, or your experience of it—” she rushed to add, before spilling out the rest of her argument in an agitated rush. “—but you and your people have since been peaceful subjects to the royal family, giving Cahraman its magic wards and trains. There is no need to hold onto a useless piece of jewelry anymore.”
Almost hitting me in the face with her elbow as she downed the remainder of her drink, Marzeya’s breath fogged up the inside of the glass. “If it’s so useless, why do you want it back?”
“I don’t—it’s not—” Ariane paused to curb her stuttering before continuing. “It’s not useful in the practical sense, Your Grace, like a sword or shield, but it has a symbolic meaning to the House of Shamash. A ceremonial use in the Bride Search I am currently participating in.”
“So, you’ve come here to bother me because you want to wear a necklace for five hours on your wedding day? Why not just commission a replica or wear any other piece of jewelry?”
“Your Grace, we don’t mean to disrupt your day—” Ariane coughed, putting a hand on her throat. “I understand it might have meaning to you, too, as a symbol of the treaty between your people and the king’s, but—but perhaps we could offer you a written decree instead?”
Though I felt like Ariane was on the right track, Marzeya struck her offer down. “A piece of paper in exchange for ra
re jewels? What a steal.”
Ariane looked winded, but tried again. “Some privileges then? A place at court? Once I’m queen, we could employ a court magician—”
Loujaïne cut her off with a firm, furious, “No!”
“Why not?” Ariane turned to her, her eager-to-please simpering gone. “It would be a good way to plan more magical improvements in the kingdom, and an advantage over any enemies. Having a grand wizard or witch at your disposal as a monarch is—”
“No,” Loujaïne cut her off, even louder.
Baffled, Ariane gaped at her. “But why not?”
“Are you as stupid as you look?” Fairuza spat. “Putting one of those in court, right next to the royal family, where they can work their dark spells to control the king, kill his heirs and damn his wife and daughters?”
Ariane narrowed her eyes at her. “I believe you’re overthinking this.”
Fairuza’s eyes hardened. “I’m the only one giving this any thought. Promising this witch any favors is opening the door to a flood of disasters!”
Before their argument could escalate, Cyrus snapped, “That’s enough!” Loujaïne opened her mouth but Cyrus raised a finger to her. “Enough.”
Loujaïne still protested, “She was inviting her to our court.”
“Yes.” Cyrus’s voice was as tense as his stance. “Princess Ariane is doing what she was brought here for, negotiating.”
“We are not letting any more witches enter the palace,” Loujaïne insisted. “Or hold any kind of position in our court.”
Cyrus’s expression turned grim as he faced his aunt fully. “Fortunately, you don’t get to decide any of that.”
Offense blasted from Loujaïne, giving me a glimpse into how she might have behaved around Nariman or towards her. Loujaïne clearly believed she had an impossibly higher rank than Nariman and that she should have precedence over her. She must have fought her viciously over having the king’s ear, and with the void Jumana’s death had left behind, over rearing Cyrus.